


unworthy

by AGracefulShadow



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Mental Health Issues, Other, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, this is a vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-30 00:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16275278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AGracefulShadow/pseuds/AGracefulShadow
Summary: His fingernails are caked with blood.





	unworthy

**Author's Note:**

> hi yeah this is me venting, like i said, dont expect anything good

His fingers are stained with blood.

It is caked under his fingernails, drying slowly.

He stares at his hand, watches the drops from his face drip onto his palm, watches the blood sink into the lines.

He tries to open his mouth, winces. More blood falls from his damaged cheek and onto his forearm.

 _Look what_ it’s _done, this fool._ It’s _hurt_ _itself_ _again,_ the little voice in the back of his head taunts.

He presses his fingers to the tender flesh of his cheek and it hurts, hurts so much.

 _Of course it does. That is the point, when_ it _does it. Because_ it _wants to hurt._

He moans, a verbalization of his pain.

 _Because_ it _thinks_ it _deserves to hurt. Because_ it _thinks_ it _deserves to feel. But pain is such a human emotion, and_ it _is no human, is_ it _, now?_

He is only aware that he is crying because the salt makes his wounds burn. He makes no move to wipe his tears. There is no point to it. More will just take its place, and besides, it hurts, and the pain is the last thing he is holding on to.

He is human, he wants to tell to the voice in his head, he is human, he feels things, he hurts.

The voice in his head is laughing.

It _is no human._ It _is a monster._ It _has nothing –_ It _is worthy of nothing. Isn’t_ it _?_ Its _nerves betray_ it _, tell_ it _sweet lies, convince_ it _that_ it _can hope to one day be more than a soulless thing._ It _turns from the truth again, like_ it _always does._

Now he reaches for his cast aside mask with shaking fingers, bloodstained hands. His thumb smears across the smooth surface.

 _Look at this._ It’s _soiled_ its _illusion, soiled it with_ its _claws._ It’s _no good now. Perhaps_ it _will finally face the truth?_

He stares at the mask for a long, long time.

 _No, no, of course_ it _isn’t. Because_ it _still clings to some feeble hope that_ it _could hide._

The mask falls to the ground. He presses his hands to the sides of his skull. “Stop, stop, stop,” he hisses through his teeth.

It _runs again. How predictable. They will also run,_ it _knows. They alwa_ _ys do._

He closes his eyes, curls into himself. Itself. Himself. He doesn’t know what to use anymore.

 _No,_ it _knows what_ it _should use._ It _knows._ It _has_ _heard it all_ its _life._

He jams his hands against his ears, as if that will block out a noise from inside. He wants to silence the voice, silence it for good.

 _Why won’t_ it _do it?_

Now his hands have fallen to his neck; his fingers press against his throat, leaving spots of red in a cruel constellation.

 _Is_ it _afraid?_

He opens his eyes, stares at the ground.

 _The monster is afraid of a thing_ it _has brought?_

His hands drop to his sides. He lifts his head to the dark ceiling, heaves a breath. He wants to scream to drown the voice out, but no sound comes out.

It _is still trying to escape, but_ it _is afraid. Does_ it _know what_ it _is?_

He wonders when he went numb to the stinging in his cheek, why he can’t go deaf to the noise in his head.

It _is pathetic._ It _is unworthy of death._

He wants to cover his ears again, wants to say something out loud to the voice, wants to do something, anything.

He falls backward, too weak to move, too exhausted to speak. He should just lie here until he has stopped bleeding; perhaps he will be dead by then, perhaps an infection from an open wound will kill him.

But he is undeserving of that respite, he knows. The voice tells him so.

The voice laughs, and laughs.


End file.
